


The Fifth Man

by ColdWarSaint



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8570719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdWarSaint/pseuds/ColdWarSaint
Summary: An assassins AU of Hetalia.America is the best assassin on record; Russia runs a massive organization; Prussia is a shadow assassin; France is the king of poison; England is M16; Canada is CIA or CSIS. There some “5th man”- an assassin that no one has on record who shows up and can beat even America, forcing the assassins to come together.





	

            Headlights fight their way through pouring rain, flicking on and off as the great machine they’re attached to navigates dips in the road. This particular car is moving slowly, taking no chances, as its light only extends a few feet. Tonight total darkness reigns with an iron fist; the moon is not allowed out behind a prison of dark clouds; the winding path of the car’s current side road should hold no appeal to any sane driver.

            No sooner, however, then lights appear around a sharp bend chocked with pines does the car slow to a halt. Without ceremony the passenger door opens to a spacious black interior like that of the night around them. Inside the figure of a massive man bends forward, just out of the rain.

            “I never ordered this.”

            The faintest of shadows stirs at his words. What appears to be a corpse strewn carelessly beside the pavement twists its bloodied head up towards the figure.

            “So…” Sky blue eyes reflect light from an unknown source. His voice is fragile. “… you… aren’t here... to finish me?”

            “Get in the car, Jones.”

            A weak laugh. “Would you believe… I… can’t?”

            The larger man grimaces. He doesn’t believe he’s imagining the hint of smugness coming from the blood soaked man half submerged in mud before him.

            “Pick him up.” He tells a woman sitting behind him, unwilling to sully his own appearance. She obeys without question, glancing up for confirmation once she has the ragged man in her arms.

            “Trunk.”

            “Oh… ouch… Ivan? Really? As an old friend… I…”

There’s a slam, and she returns to her seat. Ivan closes his own door. The car continues down the road. 

 

¯¯¯

 

            “So what do we know?” Ivan stands beside the cot that his ‘old friend’ lies in.

            “That it was the fifth man.” Alfred F. Jones is half propped up by pillows.

            Ivan, once again, shakes his head. “The fifth man is a myth.”

            “Oh yeah? Then _who_ was it. Wasn’t _me_! Wasn’t you! You think it was Beilschmidt? Or Bonnefoy?”

            “Can you be sure of that?”

            “Yes! As a matter of fact, I can! Cause _I’ve_ fought them both a hundred times and _this_ is not how they work! C’mon, you, of all people, know how hard it is to get the drop on _me_. Much less do _this_. It’s not them.”

            Ivan sighs. Alfred does have a point… and it is always fascinating when he has a valid point. Their common grounds are few and far between.

            “Perhaps an agency then.” He responds.

            Alfred snorts. The movement has to hurt his chest, which is so bandaged that you can hardly tell he isn’t wearing a shirt.

            “Really? Like M16? You’re thinking _Kirkland_? Or wait! Wait! Matthew Williams of the CIA? They’re our fifth man?”

            “Not a fifth man.”

            Alfred rolls his eyes. “Dude, what do you have against the idea of a fifth man? Did he break up with you?”

            Ivan gives Alfred a cold look. “No one is that good. I would have known of them if they were.”

            “Well, maybe they’re not good. Maybe they’re just hella patient.”

            Now that is an intriguing idea… Ivan turns it over in his mind for a few moments, weighing the possibility of such a thing.

            “Why now? Why you?” He asks.

            “Uh… I dunno man. I wasn’t doin’ anythin’. Same ole, same ole.” Alfred shrugs the shoulder that isn’t in a sling. The white of all his bandages pops against his dark skin. Ivan practically glows standing in contrast to the young, mixed-race, man. 

            “Who was your target?”

            “Er…” Alfred squints. “A Vargas…? Uh, Lovino Vargas. Italian.”

            “And was he special in any way?”

            “Not that I could tell, no. Unusually high skill set and bounty for this normal of a guy tho, I guess. Coulda been hidin’ somthin’.”

            Ivan sighs again. Alfred never knows what to look for. It is why he is in the cot, alone, and why Ivan is the one running an outfit.

            “And this job required you to go out in the middle of the night on a side road?”

            Alfred raises on eyebrow. “How dare you. How dare you think it was _that_ easy! I was _dropped_ there. By car. A car that I was _forced_ into after Vargas’ location turned out to not only be _fake_ but also _fuckin’ exploded_!”

            “I see.”

            Alfred shakes his head. “How’d you find me, anyways?”

            Ivan smiles for the first time that evening. “Trade secret.”

            “What?! Bro—you stay in here!!”

            Ivan has turned and is opening the door. Alfred struggles to fully sit up.

            “I took out your tracking chip!!”

            “One of them, yes.” Ivan leaves.

            “Wha—You get back here!! IVAN! _ONE?!_ IVAAAAAN!!”

 

¯¯¯

 

            Three days later, the next time Ivan bothers to see his patient, he wakes him up.

            “Wha… time is it?” Alfred squints into the light pouring from the open door in which Ivan is silhouetted.

            “Get up.” Ivan has no sympathy for the other man. He knows too well what he can do.

            Alfred groans and sits up, stretching out as much as his fragile state will allow. Not surprisingly he’s very unstable on his feet. Ivan admires the young man’s unflinching determination, but Alfred is moving far too slowly. Ivan strides across the room to assist.

            “Hey, man, back off, I can—Ah!”

            Ivan lifts Alfred straight off the ground in an attempt to carry him fire-man style. Alfred kicks his legs.

            “OW! All my weight is on my _injured fuckin’ shoulder now_!!”

            Ivan frowns, sets him down. “Then put your arm around my waist.”

            “Bro…” Alfred gingerly wraps an arm around Ivan. “I hate you.”

            Ivan pulls Alfred closer to his side, so that he can support the smaller man with a decent amount of force.

            “We are moving to confront Bonnefoy and Beilschmidt.” Ivan is practically carrying Alfred in his long stride.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yes. I have set them up with a false mission at the same location. Perhaps they will kill one another. I am rarely so lucky…”

            “But you have me!”

            “That is one example of what I mean, yes.”

            When they reach the ramp up to Ivan’s private jet he wastes no time in sweeping up Alfred, despite protests, into his arms to carry him fully. Once on the plane Ivan straps his patient into a seat before sitting himself down. Alfred glares at him.

            “Why do you even care so much?”

            Ivan does not respond, meeting his glare with a steady look. Alfred gets bored of the silence quickly.

            “Is it because I’m the best?”

            “Yes.” Ivan’s eyes narrow slightly. “You are the best. This should not have happened. If I cannot predict something like this then I will at least find its cause.”

            “Well, I think you’re too uptight.”

            “You are not nearly uptight enough.”

            Alfred smirks. “But I’m the best! You just said so.”

            Ivan glances out the window; he is afraid that if he looks at Alfred for too long he will take back his generosity and use the other man’s weakened state to his own advantage. Alfred had no regard for Ivan’s anger…

 

¯¯¯

 

            Gilbert Beilschmidt was suspicious of the mission he had taken, but the reward was enough to put his doubts at ease… Still, walking into the warehouse he felt much more on edge than he usually did. Almost as if—

            Without a sound someone has moved across the floor and lunged. Gilbert spins on a dime to deflect. His blade is stopped mere centimeters from someone’s throat. A needle brushes the skin of his own throat. It’s an all too familiar attack…

            “You son of a—”

            “Gilbert?!” The other man interrupts, having suddenly come to the same realization.

            “Let me go.”

            “You first, mon cher.”

            They stand in stalemate for almost five minutes before Francis Bonnefoy makes a noise of disgust and drops his needle, stepping back. Gilbert grins.

            “So this is a set up.”

            “Should have seen that…” Francis sighs. “Too great a reward.”

            “That got me too.”

            Francis shakes his head. “So what did they want? For us to kill one another?”

            “No this feels—”

            The sound of an approaching jet drowns him out. Gilbert grits his teeth.

            “… bigger than that.”

            They exchange a look before running outside in time to see a private jet landing in a conveniently empty space that neither had given much thought to upon entering.

            “Fuck.” Gilbert says.

            Francis nods in agreement.

            A staircase unfolds from the jet. The two assassins wait in glum silence for the figure they know will emerge to do so. They don’t expect him to be carrying a protesting, weakly flailing, heavily bandaged, Alfred.

            Gilbert spits. “You organized all of this just to show us that you’re boyfriends now?”

            “Ha! I didn’t ask for you to be here!” Alfred points at Gilbert from Ivan’s arms.

            Ivan ignored both of them. “I found Alfred very near death. Was that the doing of either of you?”

            “No. But if you don’t pay me, Ivan, I might do that for you.” Gilbert is less than thrilled by this turn of events.

            Francis is equally on edge. The worst place for any assassin to be is around other assassins.

            “I did not hurt the boy.” Francis, honestly, doesn’t know if he _could_.

            “I did not think so.” Ivan sets Alfred down carefully.

            “Oh? Oh no? You didn’t? You just called us here to ask us something _you already knew_?!” Gilbert snaps, stepping towards Ivan.

            “To confirm. And I think that if you were intelligent you would be more concerned with who has the capacity to kill Alfred—”

            “Uh, I’m not dead.” Alfred tries.

            “—if not one of us instead of worrying over your fabricated pay check.”

            “Some of us don’t care because some of us aren’t running ‘networks’ like yours. I work alone! If there’s another assassin and he’s in the business of hunting those on top than you can be damn sure I’ll be waiting, whoever he is. I know you have more than enough to pay us.” Gilbert’s hand has dropped down to his holster.

            Ivan’s eyes follow the motion. “You did not kill your target and you expect to be paid?”

            Gilbert growls under his breath. He doesn’t even look back at the French man, his ‘target’, in consideration. Instead his stance stiffens in a way that puts everyone else on the defensive.

            “My friend… do not let your past with this enemy cloud your judgment…” Francis tries a spilt second too late.

            Before Gilbert can level his gun with Ivan’s head and pull the trigger Alfred, who has slowly been moving closer, leaps forward and disarms him. Without hesitation Gilbert retaliates. Though he shows no indication of the pain, Alfred’s slow responses give away how bad a shape he’s in. He may be the best, the fact he can even fight right now proves that, but he won’t last long against Gilbert at this rate.

            Ivan is standing without interference. Francis takes control of what needs to be done: with gentle touches and a soft voice he brings Gilbert back down. Off of Alfred. Francis knows he couldn’t do the same with force.

            As soon as Gilbert ceases his attack Alfred falls back. Ivan’s first move is to step forward, catch him, and guide him against the bulk of his chest.

            “If you were in your right mind you would see how predictable this all is.” Ivan’s tone is ice.

            Gilbert glowers from his place under Francis’ arm. “Then who hurt Alfred, big guy?!”

            A crack in that cold façade. “That is why we are here, Gilbert.”

            “How clear do I have to make this? There is no _we_ , Ivan.” Gilbert has noted that crack. “Alfred isn’t _my_ God damn lover so I don’t care who kicks the shit out of him.”

            “This is why I didn’t want you carrying me, bro, I knew—”

            Ivan ignored Alfred again, and tightens his hand ever so slight on his arm. The smaller man falls immediately silent, and tucks his head against Ivan’s shoulder; it’s a strangely submissive movement. If Gilbert were more focused, he would have noted the deliberate impression Alfred was giving Ivan. Francis does: his eyes narrow.

            “What if they target Bonnefoy next? You are too narrow-minded Gilbert. I can only ask your concentration until we find the man. Trust me. I do not enjoy working with you anymore than you enjoy my company, but I am forced to be the joining factor because of your small minds.”

            Gilbert twitches. “Do you even _know_ how to be pleasant? Or would that kill you? If so, then _please_ say the magic word. I will care when I _fucking care_.”

            Once again tense silence reigns. Gilbert stands firm. Ivan’s grip on Alfred’s continues to tighten. The standoff is only broken when Ivan’s grip becomes too tight and he squeezes an uncharacteristic mewl from Alfred. Everyone breaks from their defensive positions; Alfred blushes. Again Francis’ eyes narrow.

            “I, uh, mean ow…” Alfred coughs. “Ivan was this just a waste of time? Cause… ‘s not workin’ an’ I’m bored.”

            “I was hoping it would not be, but they refuse to see reason.” Ivan returns his arm to its supporting position around Alfred, releasing the others man’s arm. “We are on our own. If these two fall prey because of their ignorance so be it. They would have been helpful but they are not necessary.”

            The pair turns and begins to make their way back to the jet. Gilbert stands still, stiff, his fists clenched so tightly that a small tremor runs through his entire body; his eyes are fixed on the ground. He so rarely bows his head… Francis stands in contrast beside him, eyes fixed upon the two men who are now mounting the stairs to the jet; he rests his chin on one hand.

            “You want to go.” Gilbert says through teeth he can’t unclench.

            Francis does not reply, but his eyes move to Gilbert’s face. They share a moment of visual understanding.

            Gilbert abruptly straightens and runs towards the jet. Francis follows hot on his trail. Just before Ivan has the door slowed and the stairs withdrawn both assassins burst in. Ivan’s lips curl up slightly.

            “Now you may take off.”

 

¯¯¯

 

            Gilbert is debating how much he should reveal about Lovino Vargas. The others were sitting at a table before him. He’d opted not to sit with them while they talked about the mission that had left Alfred out of commission.

            Francis clearly has his own suspicions. He trusted Francis… Of course he had other reasons than just that. Ivan, and he did hate to admit this—never would out loud—had a point about the attack. Whatever was going on he was going to play a part in. Most importantly, Gilbert believed in a fifth man.

            Lovino Vargas… that name again. They kept bringing up how harmless he was. Gilbert knew more than that. Lovino was as harmless as his twin brother… the twin brother that his own younger brother was currently dating. Should he bother to explain that? He’d be giving up his brother… but the few who knew his face and the fewer that knew his name could do the research to find that much out. And that was basically everyone in this room. They didn’t go after families; that was always too much trouble.

            So Ludwig wouldn’t exactly be in any more danger than he was already in, but surrendering more information about his personal life didn’t feel like a victory. In this business knowledge was as good as any weapon.

Francis was avoiding his eyes, and Ivan could make a guess as to why.

“Something you want to share, Gilbert?” Ivan asks none too subtly.

“Want is a strong word. I hold my hand.”

“You are here to fold.”

“No.” Gilbert’s eyed glint. “I’m never folding to you again.”

Ivan just sighs. Alfred’s head hits the table.

“I shoulda’ just been killed this is _torture_ … gah, I’m soooo bored… guys….”

He is largely ignored.

“Poor metaphor. We are not playing against one another.” Ivan makes direct eye contact with Gilbert. “And I need you.”

It is a blatant, direct manipulation. But one that Ivan has never attempted to use before. Francis raises his eyebrows. That statement targets the one place that Gilbert is still very much weak from his past with Ivan; its desperation appeals to him.

In a sense… they’re both losing.

“I know Lovino Vargas. He is the twin of my little brother’s boyfriend.”

“Ah yes! I recall that fiery little redhead! Oh, he is harmless.” Francis drums his fingers on the table. “And he’s very cute. Must be a dead-end! I say we return to my plan and I can see Kirkland tonight—”

“As I said: I struck your M16 lover from our list when your innocence was established.” Ivan turns back to Gilbert. “You know where Lovino will be?”

“I know where he lives, yeah, but I have the strangest feeling that you could have figured that much out on your own. Without involving us.”

“The hit is back on. For all of us.” Ivan smiles in a way that expresses nothing but shows all of his teeth. “The fifth man ends.”

There is was. Behind all of the games they played, and the webs they wove, lay a raw fear: the fear of that fifth man. A fifth man strong enough to kill the first man… However few principles they stood upon as murderers they valued their own places at the top of an interactive pyramid. These men did not know how to be prey; they would not allow it.

Alfred’s head pops back up. “Why not take Kirkland along? So even if we don’t kill ‘em the fifthy so he’ll be known by The Man.”

They exchange looks. Francis has lit up.

Ivan rubs his eyes. “Fine. Keep on a leash, Bonnefoy, or I’ll end him myself.”

Francis winks. “You needn’t worry.”

 

¯¯¯

 

            Arthur Kirkland knew what he was in for the moment he tried his door and found it unlocked. A small muscle in his jaw twitched, and was not relaxed upon the discovery of two freshly poured flutes of champagne.

            “Bonjour mon cher…” A voice purred. “J’ai bonne nouvelle…”

            Arthur drops his bag beside his favourite armchair and sits down with a sigh. He understands the French but responds in English.

            “What’s that? You were just leaving?”

            “Hush, now, love. Who would… loosen your tie then? You certainly don’t know how. You’re so tight—”

            “Someone who isn’t a criminal!” Arthur snaps, his face is always so red around the Frenchman.

            “Please. We both know I have worked more for governments than rouges. And yours in particular.”

            Arthur picks up his flute of champagne and downs it without a word. Sitting across from the King of Poison that simple act speaks volumes. Francis’ smile is warm.

            “We have pinpointed the fifth man.”

“Not exactly the good news I was expecting but… good, yes. Who is ‘we’?”

Francis waves a dismissing hand. “Alfred, Ivan, Gilbert.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up. “Unexpected crew.”

“Indeed…”

“A trap?”

Francis considers this. “If it were I would say it was one orchestrated by the fifth man and not one of us. Alfred almost died; Gilbert is my closest friend; Ivan… well, Ivan is in over his head.”

“How do you mean?”

Francis stands and moves within reach of the British agent; he leans over and rests an arm on the back of Arthur’s chair.

“Do you realize the way you watch my every move? It is with a hunger, my dear. I can feel the way that you stiffen before I even touch you because I am so near… Can you imagine that feeling with only a hopeless anticipation of satisfaction? You stand ever closer to a being that you can never really have, but need. You can feel his heartbeat, his warmth, his every breath as though… well, that doesn’t matter. Because to take what you crave would be to forfeit a game that you cannot win anyways.”

Arthur swallows. “I… see.”

“No. You never have. And neither does he.”

“But who—”

Francis kisses him.

 “I have an idea of the type of surprise that you were expecting.” For a moment Francis’ breath is hot against Arthur’s mouth. He smiles. “It is lace today.” 

 

¯¯¯

 

            “I don’t want anything you’re selling. I don’t want any news. So fuck off.” Lovino is, apparently, not concerned about offending the two men who have appeared on his doorstep. Gilbert stops the door before it’s slammed.

            “Lovi! You _know_ me!” He protests.

            The little Italian gives Gilbert a suspicious look. The latter rolls his eyes.

            “I’m Ludwig’s older brother.”

            Lovino scowls. “Oh. Then I definitely don’t want to see you.”

            The two men outside exchange looks and Gilbert shrugs. With a sigh Arthur pulls out his government ID.

            “We need to get inside. Now.”

            Lovino squints at it. “That’s for England you bastard. What do you think I’m stupid? This isn’t England! This is Italy. So I don’t have to fucking listen to you.”

            Another exchanged look.

            Gilbert forces open the door and just picks up Lovino entirely.

            “We’re here to kill you.”

            Lovino hits him. “This isn’t funny! Get away from me! Leave me alone! Fuck you!!”

            “No joke.” Gilbert tosses Lovino onto the couch.

            Alfred and Francis are already inside. They vetted the place this morning, when Lovino was asleep, and again under his nose before he answered the door. The place was clean: no bombs, listening devices, hidden doors, or cameras. Ivan had taken the time to secure the entire building and replace every staff member with his own. Currently he was on another rooftop with a sniper rifle. A few of his men were armed and ready to blow, not that anyone else knew; they all took precautions.

            When Lovino tries to stand back up Francis audibly aims his dart gun at him from where he’s sipping wine. Alfred has a sawed off shotgun.

            “W-what is this…?” Lovino’s eyes have gone wide.

            “Like the albino said: we’re here to kill you.”

            The doorbell rings. Everyone goes still. The ringing is followed by knocking.

            “Lovi! Lovi!” A muffled voices calls from the hallway.

            “It’s Feliciano.” Gilbert hisses.

            Alfred basically vaporizes; Francis tucks his dart gun into his sports jacket; Arthur looks casual; Gilbert motions for Lovino to open the door. The Italian moves to the door in a flurry of middle fingers and silent cussing, but he barely gets there before it bursts open on its own. Feliciano is partially obscured behind two massive bowls of spaghetti. Ludwig follows close behind with the garlic bread.

            “Oh! I guess it’s good I always make too much I was thinking you’d have leftovers but I love dinner parties too! I didn’t know you had so many friends, fratello! But I guess I’ve been gone with Lud—Ah! Gilbert! Hello! Are these your friends ‘cause—?”

            Gilbert waves and smiles pleasantly, but he isn’t at all focused on what’s being said. He’s taking note of the Alfred’s shotgun. The shotgun that he knows Alfred will not hesitate to use on Feliciano. Or Ludwig. Gilbert can’t let that happen. He won’t. This changes everything for him. Damnit! He knew he didn’t want to work so damn close to home.

            Feliciano is already ladling out spaghetti into bowls, still talking. He is completely oblivious to his brother’s clear distress, but, to be fair, Lovino always seems upset. Ludwig has moved over to Gilbert after a few minutes; he feels more comfortable in a room of strangers next to his brother.

            Gilbert ruffles his hair. They see each other more than anyone knows; they communicate comfort in silence.

            “Guests first! Guests first!” Feliciano mutters. Every one of the “guests” is served and even Alfred snags a bowl. Then Feliciano moves on to the next bowl to serve those who aren’t guests: Lovino, Ludwig, and himself.

            “Oh no… I didn’t want to use so much… I’ll have to make more… Poor fratello…”

            “I can make my own food damnit!” Lovino yells, snatching his bowl and digging in.

            None of the assassins eat. Gilbert is the first to raise a fork before Francis gives a barely perceptible shake of the head. Feliciano takes no notice. Arthur does, he sets his food down. Francis stands and walks towards Feliciano.

            “I believe the taste is… a little off. From one chef to another would you care to…?” Francis offers the food to Feliciano. “Or I could ask Lovino to help?”

            Silence. A little smile from Feliciano. “No thank you. I can tell you my recipe! You don’t have to eat it!”

            Francis shrugs and turns to offer the food instead to Ludwig. Gilbert’s eyes narrow. Ludwig takes the fork, bowing to the social pressure of awkwardly not doing so. He set his own food down. Just before Ludwig can eat a shot rings out.

            Feliciano has abandoned his bowl for a smoking gun. Francis barely jerked back in time; blood begins spreading from his shoulder. The others move on a dime. Not a second after a gun is fired everyone but Ludwig has their weapon out and aimed.

            “I am the… master of poison love.” Francis grimaces. His sports jacket is ruined. “You should do more research.”

            “I didn’t have time. You were targeting my brother.” Feliciano has gone blank.

            “You are the fifth man.” Gilbert has stepped in front of his brother.

            “And you have no reason to target my brother! He’s done nothing!”

            “If you hadn’t targeted them in return they would have left well enough alone.” Arthur says. He doesn’t have the best understanding of this situation.

            Feliciano glances at him. “You’re an agent… I was wondering why this buildings staff was entirely new. It was a trap. But what choice did I have? I can’t leave my brother’s life up to anyone. I had to protect him.”

            “You must be surprised Alfred lived.” Gilbert smirks. He has the upper hand again, and he’s comfortable again.

            Before the bewilderment in Feliciano’s eyes has time to register the butt of Alfred’s shotgun connects with his cheek, and knocks him to the ground.

            “What the hell?!” Arthur snaps.

            “Ivan hasn’t taken the shot. We found him to _eliminate_ him. Should be dead. Something’s wrong” Alfred says.

            Ludwig’s eyes widen; he moves to pull Alfred back. “I won’t allow you to eliminate him!”

            That chivalrous attempt does not make it past two steps. Alfred pins him easily before sending him crashing through the glass table in the center of the room. Gilbert re-aims in an instant. Alfred scowls, he could disarm the albino and break his little brother’s neck before getting shot but… he drops his shotgun.

            “You’re all getting too cocky. We aren’t really friends.”

            The door bursts open, and the resounding thud of wood and drywall spins everyone around. Ivan is shoved inside. Along with three or four blood soaked, explosive vests. Behind him enters a tall, pale blond. Without saying a word this stranger shoots the weapons from everyone’s hands. Of course, Alfred, holding nothing, stands unharmed. He smiles.

            “You’re late.”

            Matthew Williams returns the smile. The detonator for those vests is evident in his hand.

            “Why the bloody hell did you shoot _me_?!” Arthur is clutching his hand. “The CIA is allied with the M16!!”

            “Oh Artie. This has nothing to do with the CIA. Consider this a… hostile takeover.”

            Alfred hops over the broken table, and Ludwig’s limp form, to move to Matthew’s side. He pops up on his toes and kisses the taller man’s cheek.

            “Brother. I missed you.”

            _Brother?_ The question is evident on the faces of those who are comparing the pale blond and his dark-skinned counterpart.

            “Half-brothers.” Matthew explains. Feliciano tries pull a second gun and is shot down before he can fire it. Matthew doesn’t even glance over. “You all work for me now. Or the next wounds will be fatal.”

            Francis’ smile is bitter. “I knew there was deception in the convenience of this… you played us.”

            “We played you. Yes. But beyond strong-arming, as I am more than capable of doing, I am offering you a better offer. I found you the fifth man. I brought you all together for the first time. The old regime is dead. This is evolution, and you’ll thank me if you live.”

            “I work alone.” Gilbert says firmly.

            Matthew fires off two bullets in rapid succession, grazing not only Gilbert’s skull but also Ludwig’s.

            “You were a soldier, Gilbert. Fall. In. Line.”

            Francis, who has been shot twice now, sits down. The room is thick with the scent of blood. “Why… stop Ivan from killing the fifth man? He almost killed your… your brother.”

            “No. _I_ almost killed my brother. I found dear Feli on my own, and then I targeted him myself. Alfred was bait. I had to prove the fifth man was beyond any of you individually. The rest I knew you’d do yourselves. It was almost too easy. You’ve grown complacent.”

            Ivan has been silent this whole time. He remains on his knees, head bowed, blood dripping from his coat onto the carpet.

            “Make your choices.” Matthew has half a mind just to kill everyone in the room and set off the explosives.

            Francis slumps back into his chair. At heart he is a coward, and he will always choose his own safety. “… I stand by you.”

            Gilbert pulls off his shirt and kneels beside his brother, trying to staunch some of the bleeding. “I don’t see any other choice.”

            “I… I want to stay in the shadows…” Feliciano has sat up, clutching a bleeding hand to his wounded stomach.

            “Obey me and I will allow that. Your families will fall under my protection. Our protection. Officially.” Matthew’s smile twists across his face as they bow one by one.

            “Then yes… yes…”

            Now he turns towards Arthur, who steps backwards despite himself. “I… am not one of them. Are you threatening my life?!”

            “No. Of course not. You’re Francis’s lover He stands with me, and you are protected now. However, government agents do provide such useful information.”

            Arthur scowls. “What you want is treason! I could spend my life in prison! I’m no criminal.”

            “I didn’t say it wasn’t a risk. But you already risk those things with Francis. Prison is safety Arthur. I know all your secrets. You make love to the key to your cell.”

            Arthur bows his head. Matthew is so close to checkmate… all of the pawns lay before him.

            “Alfred. Shoot Ivan in the head.”

            Everyone looks towards the bowed figure on the ground before Matthew. Alfred takes Matthew’s gun. He isn’t smiling any longer.

            “Don’t look so shocked.” Matthew tells the others. “Ivan would do the same. You can’t tell me you aren’t relived. Look at these vests! Once Feliciano was dead? You all were next.”

            They don’t say a word. It’s true. It’s unarguably true.

            “Alfie? Love?” Matthew places a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder.

            Finally, Ivan raises his head. He locks eyes with Alfred.

            Who’s been manipulating whom?

            Alfred can’t bring the gun up all the way. Matthew never hears a gunshot.

            “Please, love. Just one bullet.”

            Alfred bites his lip. “Matthew. I don’t know…”

            “Now!”

            “But…”

            Matthew sighs and tries to take the gun. Alfred knocks him aside.

            “I love him!” Alfred yells.

            Ivan just smiles. He has not said one word. For the next few moments that silence is shared. Matthew breaths deep.

            What to do? He can’t kill his brother: he won’t. He never will. Could he let Ivan live? The others were his now. Matthew has been destroying Ivan’s empire for years…. Chipping away at its foundation…  Ivan is a dictator who has lost fear. If nothing else Matthew has always had a soft-spot for his sociopathic little brother.

            “I understand, love.” Matthew gently puts a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “If you insist that he is your love… I must protect him.”

            Alfred lights up. “Promise? I’m so sorry brother, but I didn’t know that I loved him. I knew you’d understand—”

            “One chance. My dearest. One chance. If he hurts you, me, or mine I will personally kill him.”

            “Yes sir.”

            Matthew takes back the gun from his brother and then uses the barrel of it to tip up Alfred’s chin.

            “Good boy. But you must be on your own for a while.” Matthew lets the gun drop and turns to the others. “Get up. Follow.”

            They all hesitate. Of course they would… these are not good people and they do not trust even their own intentions. Still…. Matthew is survival in this situation. These men are survivalists above all else. Matthew has always been able to sense and exploit weakness. He bends relationships… He’ll make these men obey him and want to do it. He just needed time. They follow.

            Once everyone else has gone Alfred falls to his knees, to Ivan’s level, He snuggles himself against the other man’s chest. Between them Ivan’s blood is warm; it soaks into Alfred’s clothes. He can smell sweat and iron. Ivan’s breath is ragged.

            “Mmm…” Alfred nuzzles Ivan’s throat. Never before has Ivan felt so deliciously _mortal_ …

            “I should have let you die.” Ivan’s hand moves weakly over Alfred’s back, leaving a slick red trail.

            Alfred grins. “You _should_ kill me now.”

            “You have destroyed everything I have ever worked for, little one.”

            “And I think, in your own way, you respect me for it.”

            Ivan gives a single, bitter, laugh. “You never loved me.”

            “I have always loved you.”

            “You fell for your own con.” Ivan strokes Alfred’s cheek with his free hand.

            “No. It was never a con.” Alfred hums. “Ivan… can’t you see it? Once I _knew_ you loved me, for sure, I gave Matthew his cue. He wanted an empire. Me? I wanted _you_.”

            Ivan pulls back from Alfred with a sigh, taking the younger man’s face into his hands.

            “You are psychotic. You do not have any idea what love is. This is madness.”

            Alfred lets his face rest in Ivan’s hands without hesitation, looking into his eyes with those beautiful and volatile sky blue ones.

            “But you knew that.”

            And at the end of the line… he’s right. The moment that Ivan spoke to Alfred he knew what he was. Without a doubt. And he’d put that aside. For years he’d put it aside…. He allowed Alfred to worm his way closer and closer, to undermine his authority, and finally… this. The truth.

            Ivan shakily stands. He takes his time in getting all the way up. Small movements are hard. Like Alfred, earlier, his face shows no signs of his physical condition. Whether intentional or not… he has given up everything for this man.

            Matthew is now in control of the top four assassins, besides Ivan himself, will no doubt make short work of Ivan’s remaining loyalties now that the king has been toppled. However…

            “Stand up, pet.” Ivan holds out a hand to Alfred. “I don’t think I can walk down the stairs unaided.”

            Alfred is up and at Ivan’s side within a second, adjusting the Russian to his side as Ivan had done for him.

            “I got you dude. Don’t think I can carry you but…”

            “And what of that talk of not wanting to be held?”

            “That was me staying in my character, Vanya. Playing hard to get.” Alfred grins. His cheeks both shine with bloody handprints. “Teasin’.”

            And for that moment they lock eyes again. Ivan finds himself smiling. This weakness had almost lost him his life. It had lost him his empire. But this weakness was now _his_. What was his he would control.

            “Indeed.”


End file.
